Wisdom In Words
by AelysAlthea
Summary: Sherwin was quiet. Unobtrusive. The kind of person to duck his head and strive to be overlooked. That was always the way when starting at a new school. Except that this one was different - just barely, and almost indiscernible at first, but apparent nonetheless. And all because of a few passing words.
1. Chapter 1 - Change

**Summary** : Sherwin was quiet. Unobtrusive. The kind of person to duck his head and strive to be overlooked. That was always the way when starting at a new school. Except that this one was different - just barely, and almost indiscernible at first, but apparent nonetheless. And all because of a few passing words.

 **Rating** : T (for themes)

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 **Disclaimer** : These characters and the general concept of the storyline are not mine. They are the work of Beth and Esteban, two wonderful animators who created the absolute cutest little short film titled "In A Heartbeat". Please please PLEASE take a look at it over on Youtube. It's definitely worth it.

This story is entirely extrapolated from the original film. As such, all events and characterisation are purely of my own device.

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 **Chapter 1: Change**

 _There is nothing permanent except change  
~Heraclitus_

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The tolling of a bell could mean a number of things. A beginning. An end. A call to attention. It could be a melody of poignant sound crying a change in routine, or a solemn ode of loss.

A school bell was all of these things in its own way. Regardless of the school, the specific pitch of that bell, and the hour at which it sounded, Sherwin knew that much. He'd had his fair share of experience with a variety of the sort.

The school loomed before him, all grey walls and shuttered windows. Students in navy sweaters and grey slacks slung bags over their shoulders, rising from where they sat upon the modest spread of the school's front lawn. The chatter of voices, laughter, and moans of disgruntlement overrode the ringing residue of the bell's echo.

Sherwin swallowed. Starting anew. Starting anew was… always hard. It had nothing to do with the change in uniforms. It wasn't because of the struggle he would inevitably face with the confusing layout of the school. He was prepared for that – or at least as prepared as he would ever be. _Those_ changes were the same at every single school he'd attended.

It was the people that made it the hardest.

Fingers digging into the strap of his own bag, the satchel bumping his side as he clung to it as he would a lifeline, Sherwin took a deep breath. It didn't help. Breathing, coaxing himself into _slow_ breathing, never really did. If anything, he felt just faintly lightheaded for the fact, and it didn't serve to slow his pounding heart either. So loud, it thundered in his ears. Sherwin perceived that surely, _surely_ someone must hear it.

No one turned towards him, however. No one glanced his way as they bypassed where he stood rooted to the path leading to the front steps of the school. Unfamiliar faces of unfamiliar people who barely spared him a glance but to turn away a moment later and skirt around him.

Sherwin was relieved for that fact. He didn't like being stared at.

It took a herculean effort to unstick his sensible shoes from the path. An even greater effort to start his trudging way towards those steps. Eyes fixed directly ahead didn't stop him from seeing those around him.

 _Are they looking? Do they know I'm new? Do they think I'm strange?_

How many times had Sherwin been plagued by such thoughts? He didn't know, couldn't remember. They likely wouldn't ever leave him alone, either; most of the time they proved to be valid suspicions. With a tuck of his chin, he picked up his pace and slipped into the flooded halls of the school.

Vinyl floors. Dinghy lockers that were better than some he'd seen but worse than others. Schoolrooms and noticeboards pinned with posters and reminders, a water foundation patterned in a mosaic at its base for all of the colourful gum spotted around the piping. And people. So, so many people.

A bump to the shoulder, a dodge out of the way of a senior, another backpedal to avoid the trail of juniors that hastened past and almost tripped over Sherwin's feet. He scuttled to the side of the hall, clinging to the wall as he made his way down the corridor. He'd seen the map. He'd studied it as soon as the principal had sent his mom a welcome package. Homeroom was around two corners and the third door on the right. Mr Simpson, his teacher was called. Hopefully, Mr Simpson knew to expect him. Even more importantly, it was Sherwin's hope that he didn't draw attention to him.

Sherwin _hated_ when the eyes turned and the focus was drawn. He hated it even more than changing schools itself.

The classroom was barely half full when he stepped inside. Shoulders still hunched, fingers still clinging to his satchel strap, he edged his way around the room of buzzing students, eyeing those around him with a ducked head. These would be his new classmates: the girl with the high, blonde ponytail perched on the edge of a desk, the boy at the window nibbling on an apple, the pair of other boys seated towards the front of the room appearing nothing if not engrossed in the books they were reading. A scattering of them in various states of ease; Sherwin's gaze darted around the room, committing faces to memory even without their names.

It was better to know people. Better to recognise, to be able to tell them apart, to define each from the general crowd of 'new'. That way, at least, he could pretend to be something other than 'new' himself.

The back corner seat was blessedly empty. Sherwin slid into the creaky chair, tucking his satchel under his desk, and hunched upon himself with eyes still studying the room. Plain, simple, all but interchangeable from every other homeroom he'd ever been in, it was nonetheless a necessity to commit every detail to memory.

The desks, in rows of five by six.

The teacher's station, front and to the left of the room and sparsely spread with whiteboard markers and papers.

The pattern of student arrangement, tending not too far to the front – so as to avoid the teacher's attention – and yet not too far to the back, either – for such would be indicative of potential troublemakers.

Except for Sherwin, that was. Apparently there was something about him that bespoke 'not concerning' to each and every teacher he'd ever had. Maybe it was his tendency to sink all but completely under his desk. Maybe the silence that he wore like a protective scarf seemed suggestive of obedience.

The slightly grimy windows.

The stacks of dog-eared textbooks at the back of the room.

The fluorescent lights overhead that whirred so quietly that it was almost inaudible.

And on the board –

Sherwin blinked. The board was wiped clean, as was almost expected of a Monday morning, except for a single line of text in slightly slanted hand written with meticulous straightness. A single line… and it seemed to drown out the rest of the room entirely.

 _There is nothing permanent except change._

Underneath, written in the same slanted print, the name Heraclitus sat like a footnote. Sherwin didn't know what it was – a name? The person who'd said the words like a quotation? – but that hardly mattered. It felt like the quote was written entirely for him.

Everything changed for Sherwin. Everything and always. Cities and towns, schools and friends that became less about the friends over time and more simply just the schools. His mom's job and their placement, and the house they stayed at, and the neighbours and rental cars and shopping malls. So much change, and Sherwin had perhaps, maybe just a little bit, hoped that such changes might someday cease.

Maybe he was reading too much into the quote that had likely been left by the teacher only that morning. Maybe the words were simply a throwaway mention of the inevitability of that change, and something to be read, nodded at, and discarded.

It likely wasn't meant to resound so strongly. It likely wasn't meant to place both a heaviness of the inevitability of constant change upon Sherwin's shoulders while at the same time offer a strangely satisfying hand to hold. Nothing would remain the same, and for Sherwin, that likely meant more towns and more schools. But change – that could always be anticipated.

Sherwin stared at the slanted words as the room slowly filled with students. As the boy with the apple crunched idly and the girl with the ponytail kicked her legs where they swung off the edge of her desk. As the boys at the front of the room flicked through their books to the disregard of the rest of the students, and the seats around them scraped upon the ground when filled and the slap of bags dropped at feet picked up frequency.

And Sherwin waited. He only caught a hold of his attention once more when the man who was likely Mr Simpson entered the room.

A tall, heavy-set man, he was balding and wore a pair of wire-framed glasses perched slightly askew atop his nose. The stack of folders he carried under one arm dropped heavily onto his desk as he took himself to the front of the room, but the students before him barely quieted for his presence, though several heads turned and more chairs scraped as they were filled by obliging bodies.

Not until Mr Simpson glanced towards the whiteboard. He absently patted his belly, plucking distractedly at the button-down front of his shirt. Then he turned back to the room, and a smile spread beneath the bristled tufts of his moustache. "A very appropriate way to start this week, I should think," he said, and the murmur of student voices died. "Once again, we appreciate the written words of the wise men of old." A gesture towards the whiteboard behind him, and then Mr Simpson was inclining his head to the room at large. "Thank you for your contribution again, Mr Philosopher."

As though by reflex, a ripple of laughter passed through the room. Practiced laughter, old laughter, the kind of laughter uttered by those who had heard the joke before and yet still found it somewhat amusing. Sherwin glanced briefly around himself, eyes darting towards mouths that murmured words like, "Have you heard of Heraclitus before?" and "He probably got it from one of his books." Someone even snorted with a, "Suck up. Every single day…" that Sherwin almost, _almost_ frowned at.

He didn't really have the time to grow affronted on behalf of someone else, however. Not even someone – a student, it would seem – who seemed to have written the quote directly for him. Instead, his attention snapped towards Mr Simpson again as he continued. "On the note of change, however, we have one such change in our classroom today." The teacher squinted slightly as he cast his gaze around the room.

It scanned.

It passed once, twice – and then it stopped.

Sherwin truly wished he _could_ sink beneath his desk at that point. Change or otherwise, the introduction of the 'new student' into the cohort was one so consistently arising as to be almost predictable.

 _Please don't, please don't, please don't,_ Sherwin all but begged in a mental chant. Only to smother a wince when Mr Simpson spoke. "Sherwin, was is? I'd like you all to welcome our newest student to our year."

Mr Simpson smiled at him, but Sherwin hardly noticed. He noticed only for the response it caused when Mr Simpson gestured towards him, warm and welcoming. That warmth was lost before the sea of turning faces; the girl with the ponytail and her friend alongside her with the too-big jumper. The boy who'd long since finished his apple to turn with raised eyebrows and curiosity towards him. Even the two boys with the books twisted in their chairs to regard him; one of them went so far as to lower his book entirely to turn his gaze with mild curiosity.

Sherwin could hear as much as feel his heartbeat in his ears. He could hear, too, his ridiculously overloud breath and hoped – _hoped_ – that no one else heard them both quite so loudly. His eyes darted around the room once more, and he could feel his cheeks redden with the readiness they always did.

The students would likely smirk. They would likely tease. Why wouldn't they? There was nothing quite interesting about a skinny new kid with hair too red and a propensity for blushing in his too pale cheeks. The chanting reprimands beating away inside Sherwin's head were so loud that he almost didn't hear Mr Simpson continue. "Sherwin? Good effort on finding homeroom on time; the corridors can be a little tricky to navigate sometimes." He smiled benignly, then gestured to Sherwin once more. "Would you like to introduce yourself?"

And there it was. The worst possible words to hear. Sherwin only managed to refrain from truly sinking beneath his desk by grasping the sides of his chair so tightly his fingers whitened even paler than they usually were. He hated, hated, _hated_ having the attention drawn to himself. It was almost the worst part of changing schools.

Almost.

Sherwin didn't stand. He didn't introduce himself. With cheeks flaming, chin tucking once more, and doing his best – and thoroughly failing – to ignore the stares of the curious, the dismissive, and the resigned as his fellow students turned to regard him in wait, Sherwin shook his head.

There was a pause, a long pause, after which Mr Simpson finally seemed to realise the futility of his own wait. Then he dropped his gesturing hand back to the front of his shirt and cleared his throat quietly. "Well," he said with false cheer. "Not to worry! Sherwin, welcome to the class. I'm sure everyone will be more than ready to assist you should you need a hand with finding anything. Now, I'll ask for the usual quiet while I just take roll call, if you would…"

Sherwin tuned him out as he sunk forwards until his head nearly rested upon the desk. He'd almost expected it to happen, because it almost, _almost_ always did. It didn't make it any easier to endure, however. He still hated the attention, the introduction, the staring and the unconscious judgement from those around him. To the sound of Mr Simpson's drone, Sherwin sighed and closed his eyes once more.

Two things in Sherwin's life were permanent, it would seem. Change, he'd recently discovered, and perhaps obviously so, was one of them. And the other?

Sherwin hadn't spoken a word to anyone in nearly three years. He doubted that was likely to change, either.

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A/N: Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it - and that you like the following story should you choose to continue to read it. The next chapter will be up soon. Please leave a review to let me know your thoughts!


	2. Chapter 2 - Happiness

**Chapter 2: Happiness**

 _Let no man be called happy before his death. Till then, he is not happy, only lucky  
~Solon_

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"How's are you finding it, then?"

Lost in thought, it took Sherwin a moment before he realised his mom was speaking to him. An extended moment, poking at his toast and pulling the crust free, and then she prodded him with, "Sherwin?"

Sherwin glance up with just his eyes. Of course she'd been addressing him; there was no one else in their little dining room-kitchen to speak to. There never was. It was always just the two of them.

Not that they really ever spoke. Sherwin hadn't been much of a talker even before he'd… not talked. It hadn't been a decision so much as a relief. Talking had been hard. He'd always said the wrong things, always spoken to the wrong people, so the not-decision – it had been the logical one.

Besides, it wasn't like Sherwin's mom needed him to. As Sherwin glanced towards her – at her eternally detached expression while she sipped at her coffee, her face as pale as his own, the shock of red hair that gave little suspicion as to where he'd gotten the colour himself – he knew that she didn't expect an answer. Her detachedness had become only more pronounced over the years, and Sherwin was never sure if it was a result of his silence or of her own thoughts. His mom's job was tiring. Such was the way of a high-paid businesswoman.

Still, despite the lack of necessity to reply, Sherwin shrugged. His mom regarded him for a moment, then smiled slightly as he nodded as if favourably for his new school. "That's good. How are your classes?"

Sherwin nodded again.

"Your teachers are nice?"

Another nod.

"And the rest of the children? Have you made some friends?"

Agreement came more hesitantly this time. Sherwin dropped his gaze back to his toast, struggled for a moment, then nodded slowly. _It wouldn't do to make her worry_ , he always thought. _And she never guesses, so…_

His mom's smile widened behind her mug. He could feel it even without seeing. "There. You see? I knew this move was going to be a good one. And I told you that trying a private school was a good idea too, didn't I?" She hummed to herself slightly, content, and as Sherwin dropped his gaze, he heard her sip at her coffee once more. "Maybe we'll be able to stay a little longer this time…"

Sherwin pressed his lips together as he pulled apart the pieces of his toast. He hadn't been hungry to begin with that morning, but at his mother's words…

Change was permanent. That much Sherwin had learned – or had put into words for him – on his very first day at his new school. He knew that, regardless of how well it went, they would move again. They always did. _That_ was predictable. And, as had grown more often of late, Sherwin hated the prospect of moving, of uprooting and chasing where his mom was needed most. He hated it almost as much as the thought of staying.

His classes were going well, or as well as could be expected. Sherwin was an average student in just about everything; not too smart and not too low as to warrant concern from mom or school. Art had always been his best subject, and what little skill he had made it his best class, too.

His teachers were kind enough. They were welcoming, or as welcoming as could be expected given that Sherwin never spoke a word to any of them. His mom must have told the principal of his 'selective muteness' at some point shortly after he'd started, because after his first few days the teachers stopped asking him questions. They stopped calling upon him before everyone else. That much, at least, Sherwin was grateful for.

But the students… friends…

Sherwin didn't have friends. He hadn't for a long time; not since primary school, at least, and even those friends had been few at best. There was little point to building anything with anyone when he was sure to leave in a handful of months, or a year at most. He'd had pen pals before, but even they'd dribbled into silence and neglect. Sherwin wasn't much better with expansive speech in written form, either. Writing was easy. Writing as words, though, to have someone read it – that was much, much harder.

Sherwin hadn't made friends, but he didn't tell his mom that. He'd made some decidedly not-friends, but he didn't mention that either. He'd not-talked to several people when they'd confronted him with words like, "Why don't you ever talk?" and "Where are you from, that you're starting in the middle of the year?" He couldn't answer them, of course, and that only seemed to trigger more questions.

Questions, Sherwin had grown to understand, were often accompanied by sidelong glances, frowns, and rolling eyes. He was 'weird', he knew. Different. Temporary, and interesting only for what he lacked. Maybe it would have been easier had Sherwin been able to speak, if he'd conversed with his fellow students and answered their questions, but then…

Sherwin had never been very good at speaking even when he'd spoken.

It was a blessing that, at least at the private school, uniforms were a requisite. The blue blazer Sherwin wore was a bit uncomfortable, felt a bit formal, and the grey slacks were far from fashionable, but he didn't mind. It was certainly easier than struggling to compile a new outfit of the least eye-catching apparel every day. At least in uniform everyone looked almost the same.

"I haven't heard anything to suggest otherwise this time, so maybe… yes, maybe a while."

His mother's words drew Sherwin's attention back towards her, and he blinked in momentarily confusion. She hummed to herself as she always did, contemplative, and when she continued it likely wasn't even to him. "I've always liked Florida."

It took Sherwin another moment to realise what she still referred to; staying in one place. Remaining in Sarasota, Florida, from where they'd travelled down from Jacksonville, which had come from Charleston in South Carolina, and before that Charlotte, and Richmond, and back and back until New York. Sherwin couldn't really remember much before New York, but there was probably more.

Sarasota was warm. Humid to the point of sticky, and it was, as far as he could tell, going to remain warm and sticky at least until the winter. It made for even greater discomfort in his blazer, but Sherwin didn't mind that so much either. It was smaller than Richmond, than Charlotte, far smaller than New York, and that smallness wasn't wholly dissatisfying. It was different, but Sherwin didn't mind that.

It was a shame that it wouldn't last forever. Despite his mom's words, Sherwin knew that much to be the truth.

They finished their mutual breakfasts in silence, and Sherwin spared him mom a kiss on the cheek before departing their small flat. Small, but nice, he thought in a clinical kind of way. Functional to the point of sparse, but… nice. He hastened down the stairwell, pushing through the glass door as he checked his phone.

Almost eight o'clock. Maybe today he would make it on time?

The bus ride to school took barely ten minutes. Sherwin could have walked – he had walked for the first few days of his school attendance – but that had changed as he'd had a time to beat. An unknown time, but a time nonetheless. Sherwin wondered if he was early enough that day.

Not to see his friends, for he didn't have any. Not to get in a few minutes of study in the library, because Sherwin might be a good student, but he wasn't _that_ dedicated. Not even to hide in the art rooms as his teacher, Miss Val, had allowed him almost offhandedly. Hopping from the school bus, Sherwin trotted towards the school, bypassing the spread of students sitting on the lawns out the front as usual. Not many just yet; the grounds and the street-side school hadn't quite begun to fill with students.

Passing between the modest pillars of the open gate, Sherwin trotted up the steps and inside. He didn't spare a glance for a girl in his Maths class – her name was Shelby, and she never spared him a glance in return – or the collection of boys from his grade that always kicked a football between them as though they had an image to uphold. He resolutely ducked his head when he bypassed the handful of students from his homeroom, picking up his pace further with the hope they hadn't noticed him.

They weren't nice. They didn't like him with more than just casual 'dislike'. They truly _did not like him_. Some classmates, Sherwin had found, were more accepting of silent anomalies that others; the book boys, the two girls that sat alongside the window, the boy who munched on an apple every morning as though he were striving to deter any doctors within a blast radius. They were the quieter ones, the ones that didn't make so much fuss in the mornings, the ones who didn't chatter over Mr Simpson or any of the other teachers but listened like students trying to learn.

Maybe it was one of them? Maybe it was one of those that he would meet in Homeroom that day, should chance permit?

The door was open when he arrived, swung wide into the empty corridor with its stuttering fluorescent lights and echoing depths. Sherwin slowed in his trotting step as he neared, and he would have been lying to even himself if he'd claimed his heart didn't beat a little more violently in his chest, though whether for nervousness or excitement, he wasn't sure. Maybe a mixture of the both. The _thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump_ in his ears nearly drowned out his breaths.

Until he poked his head around the door and exhaled in a disappointed huff.

Empty.

Each morning since his first, Sherwin had attempted to arrive just a little earlier than usual. It had been unconsciously at first, and then with intention when he'd picked up his pace to meet the subconscious need of his curiosity. And each morning, he arrived too late.

That day, the quotation was already inscribed upon the board.

 _Let no man be called happy before his death. Till then, he is not happy, only lucky._

Sherwin sighed. Too late. Too slow. His curiosity, usually so tightly kept under wraps, couldn't help but be sparked by the philosophical notes left by the nameless student in his homeroom class. The student Sherwin _still_ didn't know, for he hadn't seen them write those quotes. Each morning, however, he felt that curiosity rise as the words resounded within him. They seemed, almost, to speak directly to _him_.

 _Nothing exists except atoms and empty space,_ had been written as the words of Democritus _. Everything else is just opinion_.

Socrates had his old adage spread with the words, _One thing I know, that I know nothing. This is the source of my wisdom._

Echoing from Xenophon, Sherwin had been told that, _Excess of grief for the dead is madness; for it is an injury to the living, and the dead know it not._

How it seemed to synchronise, Sherwin didn't know. Somehow, though, some impossible way, it just… happened. The morning he'd first been confronted by the hoard of his homeroom classmates and queried about the 'weirdness' of his silence, he'd been reminded of the essence of opinion. When he'd struggled through a shift in English studies, focusing upon the book he alone in the class hadn't yet read, Socrates had spoken of wisdom in the absence of knowledge. And just yesterday, a day that marked the absence of the only other family member he'd ever had…

Somehow, being reminded of the pointlessness of grief had helped.

It wasn't always philosophical quotes. Sometimes there arose mentions of camels being unable to see their own humps, or reminders that the pen was mightier than the sword. Sometimes those proverbs were in Greek or Latin script, always translated beneath and with their appropriate footnotes. And they'd helped. For whatever reason, in whatever way, Sherwin had found that they'd helped him.

The words on the board that day, however, marked as the quoted by Solon, were disheartening in their accuracy. Happiness was relative, Sherwin had grown to understand, and yet elusive for its relativity. Luck, he'd further found, was a fickle thing. That day, it had evidently forsaken him.

Sherwin was curious, and not so much for the quotations themselves – though he wrote every word down in the back of his English book and looked up their sources when he got home every afternoon. Interest arose more for the writer of the quotes than the words themselves. Their presence, Sherwin had grown to realise, was exasperatedly accepted by the homeroom class.

"He did it again," someone would say.

"Doesn't he get tired of it?" another would ask. "Every single day?"

"He wrote it not in English, too? What a nerd."

Sherwin heard all the words and couldn't help but feel affronted for the nameless boy who he wouldn't – couldn't – ask the true identity of. It wasn't fair, that he would be so disregarded for sharing little titbits of the wisdom of ancient philosophers. He clearly never sought recognition for his words, either, for after nearly two weeks Sherwin _still_ didn't know who he was.

It was frustrating, though there was little he could do about it. Little, except for taking himself to homeroom early in an attempt to beat the boy to the scene. Too late, apparently. He was just a little too –

"What're you doing here so eager for class, Sherwin?"

A voice behind him startled Sherwin. Snapping his attention over his shoulder, his hands clutched at the strap of his satchel and he shrunk through the doorway into the room.

The students that had appeared behind him, those that had lounged on the steps outside the front of the school but minutes before, strode with casual swagger down the corridor towards him. Sherwin hadn't noticed their approach, and a sidelong glance at the clock hanging above Mr Simpson's desk said he'd hardly noticed time passing at all as he stared at the whiteboard and Solon's quote. It was with more than a touch of relief that he did so; barely five minutes remained until the bell sounded.

"Hey," one of the boys in the approaching group said, "I asked you a question."

There was barely five of them, but Sherwin still shrunk further into the room. He shrugged awkwardly, uselessly, and hunched his shoulders. Not that it would do any good; gesture or retreat rarely did for people who didn't want to understand it.

Snorts and mutters sounded from the boys and girls as they filed past him into the room. Mutters snide in nature, barbed and pointed, but largely harmless. Sherwin was grateful for that as he backed towards what had become his customary seat. No one had actively sought him out to poke fun at him – or at least not yet. That much was relieving, too.

The bell did sound – eventually, and after only a few laughing comments were thrown his way from across the room. Sherwin did his best to ignore them. The five students clearly had little enough interest in him anyway; why they'd arrived early to class themselves was curious, but largely unworthy of consideration.

The only moment Sherwin did feel a touch of something besides awkward avoidance was when a girl perked up and pointed at the board. "Geez, he's already been here," she said with a huff of ridiculing laughter. " _Let no man be called happy before his death_ – a bit depressing, don't you think?"

"Maybe we should wipe it off before everyone gets here," one of the boys suggested, lounging across his desk and smirking at the girl.

Sherwin felt on a detached level when his hands gripped the edge of his seat. _No,_ the thought whispered in his head. _No, don't do that. That's not fair, it's not – you can't_. Why it was so important, he didn't know, but Sherwin desperately wanted Solon's words, the anonymous boy's lettering, to remain. It was… special.

Apparently, luck hadn't so wholly abandoned him that day as he'd considered. One of the other girls, the one who always propped her feet upon her desk but seemed to be almost the nicest of the lot of them, grunted in disagreement. "No, don't. Mr Simpson's gotten used to it already. He'll know someone scrubbed it off."

"He's kind of a suck up, right?" the lounging boy said. "You don't think he gets extra credit for it, do you?"

"Like he needs it," another girl muttered.

Sherwin didn't really know what they meant by that – that the boy was smart? That he was a teacher's pet? – but he tucked the knowledge away along with his memorised quotes nonetheless. Head bowed and ears pricked, he kept himself aware for further identifying words, further hints that he could similarly store in he scant inventory of clues.

None came. The bell sounded and the corridors flooded with noise soon after. Sherwin sighed to himself as more students appeared in the doorway in an array of blazers and jumpers, slacks and skirts. Mr Simpson arrived shortly afterwards in his typical button-down.

Lucky for a moment, but overall? Maybe Sherwin wasn't so lucky after all.

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A/N: Thank you to my wonderful readers and reviewers from the first - and now the second - chapter! You are all so blessedly beautiful; I can't thank you enough for taking a chance with my story.  
Chapter 3 should be up and running soon enough. Hopefully I'll see you next time!


	3. Chapter 3 - The Art of Teaching

**Chapter 3: The Art of Teaching**

 _I am indebted to my father for living, but to my teacher for living well  
~Alexander the Great_

* * *

"Sherwin, would you mind staying back for a moment?"

Sherwin paused in the act of slowly rising to his feet. Slowly, so slowly, because he _had_ to go slowly. It was out of necessity, now, and putting into practice the skills he'd honed in many a school. To avoid. To evade. To stoically ignore the students that glanced towards him, that paused briefly at the door, that would, had Mr Simpson not held him back, have poked and prodded at him in the hallway the moment he passed through the doorway.

They were never violent. They never said more than a handful words to him, and usually the same words, too. It was almost laughable how little varied were the jeers they spewed forth.

"Still got nothing to say today, Sherwin? Surprise, surprise!"

"Do you come naturally by that hair, or do you actually comb it into a mess every morning?"

"Got a bit of vampire blood in you, Sherwin? Watch going outdoors, yeah? Skin that pale with burst into flame in the sun."

It wasn't really hurtful, for Sherwin had heard it all before. It wasn't really worrying, either, except for the fact that his classmates waylaid him from getting to his next class. Sherwin didn't mind.

Or at least he told himself that much.

The relief that eased the discomforting rapidity of his heart thundering in his chest bespoke otherwise. With a glance towards the door, Sherwin rose fully from his seat, slung his satchel over his shoulder, and started towards the front of the room. The dark-haired boy that always sat before him, the one that always had an apple on hand, spared him a glance and a shrug; they shared Science, as most of their homeroom class did, and though Sherwin never sat next to him, never spoke to him – for of course he didn't – they oftentimes found themselves walking almost side-by-side on the way. For whatever reason, the Apple Boy didn't seem inclined to pursuing his own friends before getting to class, either.

Only when the classroom emptied did Mr Simpson turn his attention fully towards him. Sherwin, standing at a modest distance from his desk, fiddled awkwardly with the strap of his bag. If there was one thing he hated…

But then, Mr Simpson, for all that he didn't call him out to speak for replies anymore and accepted the simple raised hand in the call for attendance, didn't seem to quite understand that Sherwin hated the spotlight. Even in the absence of students, he felt the hint of a flush rising in his cheeks, the awkwardness spreading through him and kick-starting his heart in a way that wasn't quite the fear induced by his classmates but felt a little like it.

"You alright, Sherwin?" Mr Simpson asked.

Sherwin met his gaze, felt his flush deepen, and drew his attention instead towards the board over the teacher's shoulder. The daily words, the quote with its 'i's dotted with circles rather than spots and as slanted as always, wavered starkly black against the white. Alexander the Great, claimed the footnote. Strange, that the legendary man's resounding presence didn't feel quite so inspiring as history dictated he'd once been.

All Sherwin could manage was a nod for his teacher. A nod, and then a shrug with one shoulder, because Mr Simpson's silence requested more.

Mr Simpson frowned slightly. Not in anger, nor disappointment, but with curiosity. His fingers tapped absently on the desk before him as he stared up at Sherwin. "Now, I know you don't like to speak, but I wonder if we might be able to have a conversation of sorts."

Sherwin shifted in place. He hated that. He hated when people tried, when they attempted to talk and perceive spoken answers from him when he couldn't give them. He hated it almost as much as the fact that he knew it was entirely his own fault for being unable to speak. He couldn't force himself to produce an utterance, no more than he could to fly, but it still felt like his fault.

But Mr Simpson was frowning, and despite his misunderstanding of the situation, he'd been kind enough. So Sherwin nodded.

Mr Simpson smiled. Just a small smile, but it was complacent nonetheless. "Wonderful," he said with more enthusiasm than was perhaps necessary. "I just wanted to touch base to see how you were going, mostly. I know it's been nearly three weeks, but even so."

Sherwin blinked. Oh. Well, that was easy enough. He nodded again.

"We usually just check in to see how you're sailing. I'm sure I'm not the first teacher to ask you in as many words, yes?"

He was, but Sherwin only shrugged.

"Right," Mr Simpson said, assuming the affirmative. "How are you finding your classes? You're going alright?"

Sherwin nodded.

"Keeping up with the course work?"

Another nod. It felt almost like his mom's tokenistic questioning.

"You're not having trouble with any changes to the curriculum from your old school?"

Sherwin shook his head. He was more than used to such changes, and though it was never easy, it was familiar.

"I'll bet you're an old hand at it by now," Mr Simpson said as though reading his thoughts. "How many schools have you been to? I've heard it's a fair few."

Sherwin nodded, paused, then held up his fingers obligingly. Mr Simpson's eyebrows rose. "Nine? Nine schools."

A nod.

"That's fairly impressive." Mr Simpson smiled slightly. "Definitely an old hand at it, then." He waited for a moment, as though for Sherwin to speak, then started with an embarrassed little laugh. Sherwin could almost pick the moment the man realised he wouldn't add anything to his words. He cleared his throat a little. "And how about everything else, hm? You don't live so far away from the school, do you? Not too much of a trip in the morning?"

Sherwin shook his head again.

"Good to hear. And what about your friends? Most of the kids here are pretty nice, from what I've seen. Shouldn't be too hard, even if starting in the middle of the year is tricky."

The silence that met Mr Simpson's words seemed to ring in loud hollowness, despite the echo of student voices from the corridor less than a room away. Sherwin swallowed. His hand tightened slightly on the strap of his bag. He pressed his lips together for a moment, fought the chill that replaced the flush in his cheeks, and gathered himself to nod.

It was a struggle. Sherwin didn't like lying, even if it was only in gestures. But what could he do? Attempt to explain that he was weird and people didn't like that? That his muteness was barrier to possible friendship that he'd not worked out how to overcome in years? That, contrary to Mr Simpson's beliefs, those very 'nice kids' weren't quite so nice out of sight of the teachers?

Sherwin couldn't blame them. _He_ knew he was weird. He'd probably think someone else was weird for not speaking too, if he weren't undergoing that particular difficulty himself. He disliked – no, he _hated_ the other kids talking down to him, uttering their snide words that still stung despite being afflicted by them for years and from various schools, but he didn't blame them. Sherwin doubted he ever would.

So he only nodded and attempted a smile that Mr Simpson seemed to take as genuine. And, as Mr Simpson smiled in return, it was all he could do to turn his gaze to the Alexander the Great's words on the board.

 _I am indebted to my father for living, but to my teacher for living well._

Sherwin hadn't had much to do with his father before he'd lost him, so that part was true enough, at least – but the teacher part? He couldn't blame Mr Simpson for his obliviousness, but clearly Alexander the Great's teacher had a bit more of a positive impact upon him. Maybe it was because he could speak so well? He was supposed to be a good spokesman, Sherwin recaled. He'd read up on the legend of a man briefly when a quote by him had been written a week before.

"You like them?"

Starting slightly, Sherwin turned towards his teacher once more. Mr Simpson tipped his head towards the board. "They've been like a little gift at the beginning of every day, in my opinion. I enjoy them myself, for that matter."

Staring, Sherwin nodded slowly. For a moment, they simply watched one another, the sounds of the students just outside the door slowly fading as they trickled to their classes. Sherwin should get to Science. He should leave, should bow his head and point indicatively over his shoulder. But he didn't. He waited and, after a pause, Mr Simpson continued.

"I know you've found yourself in a tricky situation, Sherwin," he said, and despite the absence of change to his expression, his words sounded suddenly heavy. His eyes were kindly behind his spectacles. "Even if it might not seem like it, we teachers do see a fair bit."

Sherwin blinked. Mr Simpson wasn't someone he thought was particularly perceptive – or at least, not from what little he knew of him – but he sounded almost like he was suggesting…

"There's always like-minded people to be found," Mr Simpson continued. "You've just got to know where to look. For instance, if you like history or philosophy," he gestured to the words on the board, "speaking to others who do might be a good place to start."

Sherwin blinked again. His gaze darted to the words, to Mr Simpson, then back again.

"We've got a few quietly smart people in this class. People like you."

More staring. _Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump_ sounded like a drumbeat in Sherwin's chest.

"Tyler, for instance. Or Loretta. Or Jonathan, or Michael; they're good kids. I think you'd get along well with them."

Sherwin almost couldn't breath. Mr Simpson, then the words. Teacher, then board. His eyes darted between the two, and he couldn't help but wonder… couldn't help but long for…

He'd been trying for weeks. For three whole weeks he'd been trying to determine who the owner of the words on the board was. It was a challenge, and not only because Sherwin couldn't ask anyone directly. _Wouldn't_ ask anyone, even if he had the voice to speak with. He'd tried arriving earlier and earlier, but for whatever reason, the words were always there before he glanced through the doorway. Maybe the boy wrote them the afternoon before?

Here, Mr Simpson was all but giving him a hint, and that hint felt somehow more important than suggestions about possible friends. A _hint_ , but not enough to be truly a clue. Sherwin sorely wished to ask, for clearly Mr Simpson knew. He just couldn't.

Still, he nodded, and with a touch of thanks alongside his acceptance of Mr Simpsons words. Learning who wrote the words – it had become something of a fascination to him, and one he sought the identity of ceaselessly. Mr Simpson's words, though all but useless, had been almost validation. Something besides the ridiculing remarks of some of the students in his home room class. The touch of fondness to Mr Simpson's words was… nice.

Mr Simpson appreciated the quotes, just like Sherwin.

The man smiled with a slight flutter of his moustache at Sherwin's nod. He seemed satisfied, as though he saw something within Sherwin, some acceptance of his words, that would help him, would push him forwards. And Sherwin, as he turned with a final acknowledging nod, thought that maybe he wasn't far off the mark.

He might not be the teacher of Alexander the Great, but as he trotted down the corridor to his Science lab, Sherwin supposed that maybe Mr Simpson had his own kind of support. His own part in his 'wellness'.

Whatever it was, the echo of the quotation rung in Sherwin's mind for the rest of the day. That, and Mr Simpson's suggestion; Sherwin might not seek out the children he'd pointed him to, but it was nice to know they existed nonetheless.

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry this was a bit of an anti-climatic chapter. I swear the next one actually goes somewhere (I'm really excited for the next one, for that matter). Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed it regardless!


	4. Chapter 4 - The Beginning of Something

**Chapter 4: The Beginning of Something Great**

 _Small opportunities are often the beginning of great enterprises  
~Demosthenes_

* * *

It didn't get any easier. Sherwin had long ago learned that it rarely did. If anything, the more firmly embedded in the 'weird' category he became, the more comments were thrown his way.

"Maybe he's stupid and that's why he doesn't talk?"

"Does your neck get tired from just nodding to _everything_ , Sherwin?"

"Must be hard, holding a conversation with all of your friends if you can't speak. Oh, wait – I guess you wouldn't have that problem since you don't have friends."

The speakers of such comments always seemed to think themselves utterly hilarious. Sherwin smiled mechanically alongside them when he could manage; to do otherwise would only exacerbate the taunting. He knew that from experience.

Not that he always managed. Always, the instinct to hunch his shoulders, to curl in upon himself, was paramount. To drop his gaze and escape the smirks, to hasten from the room with the hope that he wouldn't be followed.

It was always going to be hard – but Sherwin had his moments of brightness of a morning to help him get through the day.

 _Character is habit long continued_ , the proverbs stated, and Sherwin accepted himself and his failings a little easier for it, right alongside, _Keep no secrets of thyself from thyself._

There were Plato's words, that _Courage is knowing what not to fear_ , and it birthed the contemplation of fear itself – for Sherwin wasn't _scared_ of the kids in his class. Not really. And maybe that was his own kind of courage?

And then there was the week were the whiteboard-writer delved into Aristotle's words of wisdom. _Love is composed of a single soul inhabiting two bodies_ , rung with him the entire day, sweetly painful with the longing of even a friend, despite doing nothing to seek it for himself. Sweet… bit a little bitter at the same time. And then the one that he clung to like a lifeline: that _Anybody can become angry - that is easy. But to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way - that is not within everybody's power, and is not easy._

It was a long quite, slanted text dominating a significant portion of the board, but it was one that clung to Sherwin for days afterwards.

He'd never been one to grow angry. He considered it likely a deficiency in his nature, and just as likely to be a failing on his part. But resentment – that was something else. It became very, very tempting to withdraw from Tyler, the Apple Boy who sat in front of him in home room and still walked silently alongside him to Science, or to disregard Loretta's often yet still unexpected smile as being 'an accident' that she 'didn't really mean'. So easy. The reminder to recall the Who and the What served to stem the urge just slightly.

Sherwin's first month at his new school didn't become any easier, but that little spark of brightness was sufficient to light the recurring darkness. Things would change, he knew. After all, change was the one of few things truly permanent.

That change presented itself exactly one month into attending his new school.

How Sherwin recalled that it was _his_ book he wasn't sure. How he was even left with it as a responsibility was even more astounding. It was likely a combination of factors – distracted, as Sherwin always found himself, and then forcibly slowed in leaving the classroom when a boy he'd grown to know as being called simply 'Digs' swept past him in his departure with a muttered, "See you later, Roach. Don't cause a ruckus on your way out."

Sherwin paused in the midst of slipping his books into his bag. Roach. He'd grown to hate that name. He hadn't even know why he'd been dubbed it until barely days ago when those who taunted him informed him that, "It suits you, so quiet and bug-eyed and scuttling all over the place."

Sherwin didn't have anything more against cockroaches than the next person, but he'd grown to hate the thought of them.

Motions slowed to a stall, Sherwin was only just lifting his bag onto his shoulder when the last person disappeared through the doorway. Mrs Hamilton, stacking her books on the desk with the neat precision her perfectly manicured nails always did, spared him barely a glance as he started after the departing student.

"Have a good afternoon, Sherwin," she said, much as every other teacher did. Sherwin didn't know why, but for whatever reason, his teachers seemed to have communally decided to go the 'extra leg' with acknowledging him. As though they felt the need to speak up for his silence.

Sherwin wasn't sure whether he should be confused or grateful for the fact. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

He nodded in his own usual acknowledgement when she spared him a glance, then paused in step when she frowned and tipped her head forwards. "Oh, someone forgot their book." She clicked her tongue, shaking her head, and sighed with a final _thump_ of books onto her pile. "The forgetfulness of some people. You wouldn't remember who sat there, would you, Sherwin?"

Sherwin drew his gaze towards the desk two before him, to the book left abandoned in the corner. He shook his head in reply to Mrs Hamilton's words before crossing the room towards it, because that book… it wasn't their English book. _The Three Musketeers_ wore a boringly plain cover that stood in stark contrast to the bright yellow of the abandoned book.

Sherwin recognised it. He recognised the book, and he was reaching for it before he'd thought otherwise. One of the book boys had been reading it that morning, he'd seen. Reading, and entirely engrossed, as though it told him the meaning to life itself.

"Would you be able to give it back to them?" Mrs Hamilton asked as she formed another pile of papers.

Sherwin barely heard her. He felt his eyes widen slightly as he read the title of the book, the author, and comprehension dawned. Aeschylus' _Prometheus Bound_. He knew of Aeschylus himself only for the quote that had been written on the board the previous day.

 _Time, as it grows old, teaches all things._

It had become almost habit to research, now. Habit for Sherwin to jump onto his computer when he returned home every afternoon and even before starting his homework, to click through the list of explanations for that day's quote. It didn't take masterful powers of deduction to consider that the writer of the quotations had an avid love of Greek literature, or at least its philosophers.

Sherwin swallowed, glanced up at Mrs Hamilton where she'd finished stacking and turned her back to him to wipe at the whiteboard free of its smear of messy notes. She wouldn't have seen, but he nodded anyway. Then, tucking the book to his chest, Sherwin hastened from the room.

He'd never visited homeroom after school hours before. He'd meant to, had intended to, but the thought of actually meeting the whiteboard-writer was as nerve-wracking as it was exciting. Sherwin was almost _scared_ to meet him, because what would it mean if he did? Did he want to become the other boy's friend? Did he think they would share something, that Sherwin would be able to express somehow, without speaking, that he so greatly admired and appreciated the words that _surely_ weren't specifically for himself, but felt a little like it regardless?

Sherwin didn't know. He hadn't the answers to his own questions, but it suddenly didn't matter. Time had taught him, and that teaching had prevailed upon him that maybe, just maybe, it was worth a try to at least know who was the writer was.

 _Though I already know,_ Sherwin thought as he glanced down to the book wrapped tightly in his hands. _I remember him reading it this morning, even if I couldn't read the title on the cover. I know, but…_

He had a book to return, after all.

The corridors weren't empty when Sherwin left his English classroom, but it was blessedly free of his own classmates. He'd almost feared – almost, because courage taught him to be fearful of the _right_ things – that they would be waiting for him with sneers and taunts of "Roach!" But none were visible, and Shewrin set off at a quick step that became a trot in the direction of his homeroom.

He could feel his heart skip a beat before climbing into his ears to drum with a heavy pounding. Excitement, it was. Excitement, and nervousness, and just a little self-reprimand for the foolishness that had him so excited and nervous and hopeful. Sherwin could feel a touch of heat rise in his cheeks, but no amount of effort would ever vanquish it, so he didn't try. The warmth remained, the rapid _thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump_ a consistent companion, as he turned to corner and nearly skidded to a stop before his homeroom.

Sherwin paused. Took a deep breath. Took another just for good measure. _Why am I so nervous_? he asked himself, and couldn't fathom the answer but to acknowledge that he was. He _knew_ who the boy was. He _knew_ , and yet… knowing didn't make it any less daunting.

A final breath before, with the hand not clutching _Aeschylus'_ book, Sherwin pushed the door open.

For a moment, he couldn't bring himself to look inside. Sherwin was almost more nervous that there would be no one there than that he'd have to confront them. That he _wanted_ to confront them. But that fear dissipated into a mixture of horror and delight when he turned immediately towards the whiteboard.

The back of the boy's dark head, hair still as perfectly combed as it had been that morning, nodded slightly as he wrote. The arms of his blue school jumper – jumper, not the uncomfortable blazer that Sherwin wore – was shucked to his elbows. He stood straight-backed and attentive as he wrote in his slanted script across the very centre of Mr Simpson's board.

Sherwin stared at him. He felt the flush in his cheeks, but for the moment it didn't matter. He felt the excitement, the thrill, as well as the tremble of fear welling within him, because _this_ was the boy. _This_ was the one he'd been wondering about since the first day he'd arrived at school. _This_ was the owner of the quotes that had struck him with unexpected profoundness.

 _Thu-thump-, thu-thump, thu-thump_ , reverberated deafeningly loudly in Sherwin's chest, but for the moment he didn't care. He was almost, _almost_ certain he was the only one who could hear it; the boy would surely have turned around if he could, too.

Which he did, eventually. Slowly, and after taking a step back to study his 'i's circled dots and the looping tail of his 'g's. Then he turned and, starting in much the same that Sherwin couldn't help himself from doing, staring him with widely blinking eyes.

Blue. Sherwin had never noticed that Jonathan had blue eyes before.

"Oh," Jonathan said, surprise evident in his voice. "I didn't even hear you come it."

Sherwin swallowed. He shook his head, bit his lip, and then swallowed again. Jonathan shifted in place, as visibly awkward as Sherwin felt, and he spared a glance over his shoulder again for the words he'd written on the whiteboard. Sherwin followed the line of his gaze.

 _Small opportunities are often the beginning of great enterprises_

It struck. As it always did, the words struck Sherwin and held fast. Demosthenes _'_ words, someone that Sherwin didn't yet know, but they resounded.

An opportunity. Something small. And the beginning…

Striding across the room, Sherwin was shoving Aeschylus' book towards Jonathan before Jonathan had even fully turned back to wards him. Jonathan started again, just a little, and nearly stepped backwards. But he didn't. He didn't draw away, and whether accidentally or intentionally, that meant something to Sherwin. He didn't _know_ Jonathan; he'd admired him before he knew who he even was, but he didn't _know_ him. Even so, the urge to do something – anything – welled within him in an uncontrollable urge.

"Mrs Hamilton wanted this dropped back to you."

For a second, the room rung with the whisper. Just a whisper of a croak, barely audible, but definitely words. Sherwin, chin tucked and unable to meet Jonathan's eyes, stared down at the book he'd pushed into Jonathan's hands and felt a slap of surprise strike his like a blow.

That was…

That was…

 _Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump_.

He almost couldn't believe he'd spoken. _He'd_ spoken.

"Oh," Jonathan said. Nothing but surprise touched his tone, until, "I didn't even realise I left it behind. Thank you."

Sherwin felt his cheeks flush once more. His hands fell to the strap of his satchel and clutched his bag. Mingled shock – because had he really, truly said that? He'd spoken? – and embarrassment warred within him, but it wasn't enough to still him from raising his gaze. Just barely. Just briefly.

Just enough to see Jonathan's slight smile.

Had the warmth in his cheeks been any greater, Sherwin thought they might have burst into flame. As it was, they didn't. Not quite. His tongue leapt into action once more, however, wagging as it had barely even considered doing for so long. "That's okay," he said, still in barely a whisper that he likely couldn't have managed louder had he tried. "I don't mind."

And then he was turning. Then he was striding from the room, and then running down the corridor in a tumbled of yet more embarrassment, but also delight, and excitement, and amazement.

He found the writer.

He'd spoken.

But more than that, Jonathan had _smiled_ at him.

Sherwin didn't know quite why that fact felt so unutterably special, except that it did. With the memory of Jonathan's surprised blue eyes, the hint of his smile, Sherwin fled from the school.

 _Small opportunities…_

He'd taken it, and for whatever reason, it felt almost as though something _had_ become of it. With his own smile spreading across his face, Sherwin fled the school. He did, however, leave just a little piece of himself behind.

* * *

A/N: This is the final chapter! I hoped you liked this little short story; if it's even partially reminiscent of the film, I'm absolutely delighted!  
Please let me know your thoughts with a review. I'd love to hear what you think!


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